


Devotedly I Gazed

by Siff



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad People, F/M, Killing, M/M, Violence, evil!musketeers, the boys are evil here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man tells the story of the most wanted men in the country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotedly I Gazed

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, another Evil-Musketeers story. I can’t help it. There are just so many possibilities with this AU. However, it has no connection to my other stories and for now I won’t continue it.

There were whispers in the taverns all over France. Rumors, dangerous words spoken in the darkness of corners and over empty tankards. No one dared to speak too loud, in fear of being overheard. No one wanted to be associated with them; no one wanted them to hear the talk about them.

Yet they did speak of them, for it was just too intriguing not to.

The rumors said they had once been musketeers. Bold and brave; the Kings Guard; fearless and victories in any battle; respected by the people and their fellow comrades.

No one knew what made them throw away the blue cloak and turn their back on king and country, but it was said that when they did, the garrison burned to the ground, and nearly every musketeer burned with it. Since then, they were hunted men.

“Little truth in that,” the young man muttered and drank deeply from his glass. He eyed the gathered crowd around him, men and women, drinking in his words like a thirsty man would water. “The garrison never burned and no musketeer died. And they were hunted men long before that… or at least one of them was.”

The boy, who had been fast and stolen the seat before him, leaned over the table, eager not to miss a single word. He had been there ever since the young man had entered the tavern, dripping wet from the rain, demanding a drink and sat down in the corner. Ever since he began his tale.

He lifted his hand and held two fingers up before the boys’ face. “Two. Only two of them were musketeers. And good ones, too. Thick as thieves they were, Porthos and Aramis. Porthos had the strength of a bear and a smile that promised trouble or fun or both if cards were involved. Aramis was, well, the ladies man.” He looked at the women behind the boy, who blushed as his eyes settled on her, “He could sweeten any fair maiden with words and smiles, yet his true skills were with a pistol. Hitting anything that moved from a good two-hundred yards without blinking, he could. Barely had to aim. Good men, both of them.”

“And yet they left the musketeers?” said the boy, his question asked low. The gathered crowd seemed to edge closer. The young man turned his gaze to the boy.

“They did.”

“Why?”

The young man drank again from his glass, emptied it. Eager hands grabbed it as soon as he placed it back down on the table, letting a new one full of wine take its place.

He held up three fingers. “The third,” he said. The tavern was quiet. Everyone, even those far from his table seemed to listen intensely to his words. “Back when they were still respected as good soldiers, they were sent off on a mission. To capture the notorious criminal Athos, and bring him back to Paris to be executed.”

He paused, letting the name ring out in the tavern. It was well-known.

“Who, or what, Athos was before he became a thief and a murderer, only a few know. And if they wish to see their children grown up, they keep that information to themselves. What is known, however, is that there was a woman. Beautiful as an angel but with a soul darker than the devils. They married and slit the priest’s throat as they ran.” A woman gasped and made the sign of the cross before her chest.

The young man smiled slightly, “They say she corrupted him, whispered in his ears, making him commit horrible acts and guided his hands and darkening his soul with words of love. They say she lead him down the path of the damned. They are wrong. He was in no need of guidance.”

. . .

_“Please!” the man begged, desperation clear in both his voice and his eyes, “I beg of you!”_

_“And I heard you,” Athos said and continued running the whetstone over the blade of his dagger with lazy moves. He didn’t look at the man but knew his captive was shaking with fear._

_“We meant nothing of it, I swear. I have children, small children, they starve and we thought-“_

_“You thought you could capture me and hand me over the city-guard, and earn the golden coins my arrest would bring.” Interrupted Athos and tested the blade with his thumb. Blood welled to the surface after a light touch. He smiled and licked the blood off his finger. “Am I right?”_

_He finally turned and looked at the man. He was ugly. Fat and ugly, and useless. He and his dead comrades had been pathetically easy to trick and lure off the path, and right into the trap. Anne hadn’t even needed to remove her beautiful gloves._

_He jumped off the log and strode towards the man, making sure the dagger gleamed in the torchlight. The man cowered before him, held his bound hands up before his face. Athos lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. Pathetic._

_Athos kneeled before him, making the man twitch violently, and pressed the dagger against the loose-hanging skin of the neck. The man sobbed._

_“Am I right?” Athos asked again. The man nodded but froze as the dagger nipped at his skin, then made a sob that could only be more wordless begging._

_Athos couldn’t stand cowardice and let the tip of his blade press harder against the skin. The man’s breath hitched. “Am I right?” Athos hissed._

_“Yes, yes!” the man openly cried now, big fat tears ran down his cheeks and joined the snot from his nose. “We were going to split the money and then go after… after her. Please, please don’t kill me.”_

_Athos removed the dagger and the man looked up with a hopeful expression. It dwindled quickly as their eyes met and, if possible, he paled even more._

_“No, please, no!”_

_“Attacking me was stupid,” said Athos, “But threatening my wife…” he let it hang in the air and smiled as tears began to run anew._

_A hand touched his shoulder, “Darling, stop playing. I wish to leave this place. It’s starting to stink.”_

_He reached up with his free hand and took hers, bringing it down so he could kiss her gloved palm. “In a second, love,” he said and let his lips run up to her wrist, “almost finished here. Why don’t you go ready the horses?”_

_He smiled as she pulled back her hand harshly, clearly annoyed at him, and turned his attention back to the man, only to see the pig stare with an open mouth and wide eyes at what could only be his wife’s retreating form. He recognized the look in those eyes very well, and it pissed him off. With a snarl, he grabbed the man’s bound hands and pulled him forward, burying his dagger into the fat belly in one swift move._

_The man gasped and Athos wrinkled his nose against the foul breath. He leaned closer._

_“Never look at my wife.” he said and gave the dagger a good twist. Then he pulled back and stood up. The man fell face-first into the dirt, gasping and writhing as life bleed from him._

_He tilted his head a little and watched as the body fought the inevitable._

_He left the man and turned to see Anne standing by the trees with their horses. She smiled at him and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She reached out and took the dagger from his hand. She eyed the blood on the blade before dropping it to the forest floor, and then she grabbed his jacket and pulled him against her._

_Their mouths met in a bruising kiss and Athos didn’t hesitate to bury his hands in her hair. He ran his tongue along her lower lip, drowning in her taste and her scent, and she answered by biting his, drawing blood. He gasped and moved his hands from her hair to her waist. She drew back, liking the blood from her lips and he groaned at the sight._

_He grabbed her roughly and pushed her backward. She laughed as he pressed her against the tree, her voice was like the sweetest music and bent down to reach beneath her skirt. He hoisted it up as she began to unfasten his breeches. He pressed himself against her and she wrapped her beautiful legs around him so her skirt pooled around them._

_His lips found her neck and she moaned as he bit down hard. “No one looks at my wife,” he growled._

_She threw her head back with another moan. “No one, my love,” she said._

. . .

A shudder seemed to go over his audience and the story-teller had trouble hiding his smile. “Now, our two musketeers were sent out to catch Athos, to lure him out and put him in iron before he could run off again. They were the first to succeed.”

The sound of thunder striking outside the tavern made several of patrons jump where they sat. A woman shrieked loudly and then giggled embarrassed along with her friend.

Only the boy had remained unaffected by the thunder, his eyes fixed on the teller.

“What happened then?” the boy finally asked.

The storyteller regarded the boy in silence before answering, “He allowed himself to be captured. Walked deliberately into their trap with open arms and they overpowered him. They were three days travel from Paris. When they returned, Athos was not with them.”

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise.

“He had escaped, they said. Tricked them in the middle of the night, and then ran off into the dark where his woman waited with horses. They lied. Whatever Athos told them, it was enough to make them let him go. They released him and returned with a lie to their commander. A lie, added with a rather disturbing discovery about their commanding officer, made them turn from their duty and call as guards to the king. They disappeared from Paris, only to reappear beside Athos as his right and left hand.”

He leaned forward, resting his arm on the table, drawing closer to the boy who stared at him like he was a saint bringing Gods words. The other patrons leaned in as well. The whole tavern was his audience; even those in the corners had stopped pretending they didn’t listen. Only his voice and the fire slowly dying in its hearth were heard.

“Now, if you think Athos and his wife have souls darker than hell, you have never met Porthos and Aramis. And pray you never will.” He pointed at the boy before he drank from his glass. Another one was immediately ordered for him. He looked at the faces watching him. How eager they all were.

“Aramis was meant to be a priest. Rumors say he now prays to a different power, a darker one that keeps him and his companions alive during their horrible crimes. I don’t know if those powers listen, but their little group escapes the many attempts of capture the new captain of the musketeers sends after them.” the woman who made the sign of the cross before, repeated the movement and whispered a prayer. He had to hold back a chuckle and continued his story.

“The darkness has supposedly settled within Aramis, making him descend like a Greek god from the trees he hides in with his guns during planned ambushes, beautiful and deadly in both aim and charm. Men and women fall for both, and the group’s reputation has grown as he sneaks his way into the halls and beds of the rich, leaving hearts broken, jewelry boxes empty, and sheets bloody. It’s said that if he chooses to, he can even seduce the Queen herself.”

Two young women stuck their heads together and whispered, one of them flushed down the neck. The storyteller smirked. They had only heard about Aramis’ charms and already they were captured. Dark powers indeed.

“Porthos is another matter,” he continued, “He enjoys violence and the rush a battle can bring, like any man born to fight. But there are dark rumors about him. While apparently being from the poorest of upbringing this world can give a man, he only ever sought one thing. Not gold, not blood, not fame. Only one thing. Something dark and foul, something every good Catholic would never even dare to speak of. Something he found with Aramis, and now that he has it, there is nothing in the world that can separate him from it.”

. . .

_Porthos leaned his head back and closed his eyes, biting his lower lip. He quite enjoyed this. It was messy but the feeling of Aramis’ finger running over his skin made his blood run hot. He had to hold himself back from reaching down, grab Aramis by the hair and pull him up so their lips could meet. Instead, he let himself fall into the weird, forbidden pleasure of feeling the needle go through his skin. He groaned._

_“Sit still,” chided Aramis and smacked his uninjured leg. Porthos grinned and cracked open an eye, glancing down. Aramis stared up at him in annoyance from his kneeling position, needle clenched between bloody fingers. “Do you want it to scar?”_

_“I want you.”_

_Another smack, “Later, I’m working.” The needle pierced his skin again and he felt the thin thread being pulled through his flesh._

_He took a shuddering breath as he hardened in his breeches._

_He watched as Aramis worked, his brow slightly furrowed as he stared intensely at his work. Porthos supposed it was a rather large wound. About the length of his hand and running straight down his calf. The boy had been better with the sword than Porthos had expected and he almost felt bad about killing him. Almost._

_“Aren’t you done yet?” asked a voice from the door, and they both turned their heads to look. Athos was leaning up against the doorframe, he had shed his belt and jacket, and his shirt was hanging open down to his stomach. He lifted a bottle of wine and took a swig from it, smiling at them as some of it dripped into his beard._

_“True art takes time,” said Aramis with a smile, “Why, are we in a hurry?”_

_Athos shook his head, “You have a few hours. We leave before dawn.”_

_“Very well. You want me to take a look at that?” Aramis nodded at Athos’ arm, where a ripped piece of cloth was wrapped around just below the shoulder. The red had long since soaked through the white fabric._

_“How sweet of you to offer, Aramis,” said Anne, suddenly appearing behind Athos, whose whole body seemed to relax at her mere presence. There was no evidence of their latest little struggle with the nobleman and his family on her, and she ran her hand over Athos’ shoulder to his neck where it stopped. Athos closed his eyes and leaned his head back as her finger curled around his throat. “But I will take good care of him.”_

_Porthos couldn’t help but frown as she pulled their leader backward out of the room by her grasp on his neck._

_“You still don’t trust them?” asked Aramis a little worried. Porthos shook his head._

_“I trust them. Just doesn’t like her – or the hold she has over him.”_

_“He’s a big boy; he can take care of himself.”_

_Porthos didn’t answer, he wasn’t quite as sure as Aramis in that. Athos was an easy man to understand, he desired only the simple pleasures of life, like Porthos. Wine, blood, sex. It was Anne who troubled him. He didn’t understand that woman._

_He hissed as Aramis poked him with the needle. “Oh sorry, did I hurt you?” Aramis smiled sweetly._

_“Very funny, now get on with it.” he nodded at his leg._

_“Why the hurry?” Aramis finished his work; he tied a knot on the thread and then used his teeth to bite it over. He then packed the needle back into its little leather-pouch, which he tugged into his saddlebag._

_“Because,” said Porthos and grabbed Aramis by the arm, pulling him into his lap, “there’s still a few hours to dawn.”_

_Aramis glared at him, “You are wounded.”_

_“I don’t need my leg for this.” Porthos leaned closer and pressed his lips against Aramis’._

_He felt Aramis smile against his lips before pulling away, “Fine, but if you tear my work I’ll punish you.”_

_Porthos was sure his smile reached his ears, “I look forward to it.”_

_. . ._

A man looked horrified, shocked by the tale. The two women, who had whispered together, were blushing even more, and the storyteller took his time looking over their young faces. Pretty, both of them.

“Where are they now?” an old man asked, voice gruff.

The storyteller smiled, “Everywhere,” he said, “They ride where they want, takes and kills when they wish. They attack the rich and fat in their carriages as they travel on the road, but make no mistake. No coin these men take finds their way to the poor or helpless. These men are not heroes. They are not honorable men who fight for the weak. They fight for themselves. And each other. They would kill for each other. And they do. Thick as thieves they are.”

His words faded. He took another sip of his wine, another glass someone had given him and wrinkling his nose at the taste, horrible.

“How come you know all this?” the boy asked, his voice a small whisper. This had no doubt been the night of his life.

“Yes, d’Artagnan, how come you know all this?” said a clear voice from the corner of the tavern. Every head turned in the direction of the voice and they all saw a startlingly handsome man sit sprawled in a chair. His hand was lying on the small table before him, fingers carefully running up the side of a glass. A hat rested beside his hand, the dark feather glinting in the sparse light. He smirked at the sudden attention, and crooked his head slightly to the side, still looking terrible handsome.

The storyteller leaned back in his own chair, lips thinning in a grin. “Come now, I was only having a bit of fun.”

“And now you’ve had it,” said the man and stood up, his long coat was open around his neck where a golden chain could be seen. He looked at the storyteller, and even with his smile gone he was still beautiful. “But you know how Athos feels about this.”

The storyteller rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Athos is boring. He should live a little more.”

Their audience was confused. A single man seemed to have pieced it all together and he drew his knife. But before he could do anything, the coat wearing man swiftly drew his own dagger and threw it across the room, where it buried itself into the man’s neck. He fell over and the woman beside him screamed.

The entire tavern panicked. Men drew their pitiful weapons and the women ran around like startled hens. The storyteller ended up firing his pistol at the ceiling before a frightful silence fell over the room.

“What is going on here?” a voice suddenly asked, coming from the stairs leading to the top floor. Every head turned and looked, and saw a man descending the steps, slowly and with an expression more calm than his voice. He seemed to take in the scene before him, the frightened patrons and the two men, one with a raised pistol, the other pulling a dagger from a dead man’s throat.

“Speak of the devil,” the coat wearing man grinned and wiped his dagger clear. He sheathed it and pulled out his sword instead. “d’Artagnan was just telling our story.”

The newcomer was not impressed, “I asked you to keep watch.” He said and his sharp eyes settled on the storyteller, who shrunk slightly in his seat.

The coat wearing man smiled darkly. “We did. Are you two done up there?”

“Porthos took care of him,” the man said and took the last few steps down the stairs. He looked around the room, eyes settling on each frightened face and then shook his head. “I’ll get the horses. Get Porthos and take care of this mess. We don’t have time for this,” he said, ignoring the frightening screams from the other people in the tavern. He looked at the storyteller. “We’ll talk about this later.” And then he left the tavern, slamming the door behind him.

The coat wearing man snickered. “You’re in trouble.”

The storyteller just mumbled something. Then he got up from his chair and bowed down, and pulled out the boy from beneath the table he had been hiding beneath. The young face had tears streaming down from scared eyes.

“P-Please…” he whispered. The storyteller looked unimpressed down at him.

“You think begging will help?” he asked and slit the boy’s throat.

. . .

_“Hide, Son. And be quiet,” said his father, as he pushed him under the bed before drawing his sword and faced the door. The hammering grew louder and louder and he crawled forward, peeking from beneath the bed._

_The door burst open in a flood of embers, flames licked their way into the room, running along the ceiling. He didn’t scream. He didn’t make a sound as a giant man stepped into the room, holding a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. His father didn’t hesitate. He attacked with a yell, bringing down his sword and was rewarded with a hit directly in the face with the torch._

_He stared as his father fell, landing hard on the wooden floor. The giant man stepped closer. His face was illuminated by the light from the fire that slowly ate its way deeper into the room. The man was grinning._

_His father looked over his shoulder at him, and he held his eyes as a sword was run through his neck. He would later wonder why it didn’t sadden him._

_He looked up at the man and saw another enter the room. He was laughing too, hands playing with a golden chain around his neck. After him came yet another man and… an angel._

_She floated into the room. Dark hair waving around her face, her dress red as the blood that ran from his father’s wound. They all looked down at his father who moved, still alive. The third man pulled out a knife and knelt. A swift move of his hand followed by a gurgling sound and his father was dead. It didn’t sadden him._

_The angel pulled the man back up to his feet and she pressed their lips together in a wild kiss. Never had he seen his father and mother kiss like that. The man grabbed her around the middle and pulled her closer. They were so beautiful._

_“Enough of that,” said the first man with a fond grin, “House burning, remember?”_

_The second one smile, “Jealous, are we?” before latching onto his comrade and bringing their mouths together in a kiss._

_He gasped in surprise. The two men kissed like their lives would end if they stopped, pressed up against each other as the larger one grabbed the other by the hair and tugged hard. He stared as they lips moved together and felt something hot gather in his stomach. He couldn’t look away and finally had to swallow._

_Moaning filled the room but it didn’t come from the two men. The man and the angel were fumbling with each other’s clothes, and the two men broke apart to look at them._

_“Should we stop them?”_

_“Athos will cut you.”_

_“True, but like you said, the house is burning.” His voice rose at the last few words to nearly to a shout, and the couple finally separated. The angel looked annoyed at them while the man just smiled._

_“Shall we then, gentlemen? Milady?” he asked, holding out his hand which the angel took after a small courtesy. They left the room, followed shortly by the two men, who was now talking in a carefree tone._

_He didn’t wait long before he crawled out from under the bed. The fire had caught the walls and smoke was thick in the air. He crawled on the floor until his hands landed in something wet. He looked to the side and saw how his father stared emptily at him, blood still dripping from the gash in his throat._

_He reached out and pried the sword out of his father’s hand. It was quite heavy. Then he jumped to his feet and ran outside. He gasped the clean air into his lungs, dropping to his knees in the grass and threw the sword to the ground._

_He coughed and coughed, feeling the air burn in his lungs. Then he heard the horses._

_He looked up and saw all four of them astride on their horses; they backs were turned to him, all but one. The one who had kissed the angel.  The man was looking at him, and he felt bold enough to meet his eyes._

_They were beautiful._

_The man smiled at him before reining his horse around, and with a yell, all four of them disappeared into the darkness._

_He was left alone. His home burned behind him, his father’s body with it._

_He picked up the sword, leaving bloody prints on the handle and stuck it into his belt. He would find the four. Even if he had to search for the rest of his life, he would find them._

_Athos, the man’s name was. Athos. Something warm gathered inside him and he suddenly found it hard to breathe._

_He would find Athos._

_Athos._

_Athos._

_Athos._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wise men know dark is right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714754) by [musicmillennia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia)




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